The city was still stretching awake when they stepped out together, the air cool and clean in that brief window before noise took over. Rita walked a half step ahead, confident as always, her tote folded neatly over one shoulder. Faro followed, hands in his pockets, already smiling like he knew the day would be longer than planned and better for it.
They stopped at a small street café tucked between brick buildings. Chairs scraped softly on pavement. A barista yawned behind the counter. Rita ordered coffee without looking at the menu, the way people do when a place already belongs to them. Faro leaned back against a post, watching pedestrians drift past in ones and twos. He made a quiet comment about how everyone looked like they were late for something important. Rita laughed into her cup. The day hadn’t even begun, and already it felt unhurried.
By the time they reached the market, stalls were unfolding like pages in a book. Canvas awnings lifted, crates thumped onto tables, and the smell of fruit and herbs thickened the air. Rita slowed near a flower stand, fingers brushing the stems before she lifted a bouquet and closed her eyes. She breathed it in, soft and private, as if the scent belonged to a memory rather than the morning. Faro didn’t say anything. He simply paid the vendor and handed her a smaller bunch when she turned back. She looked at him for a moment, surprised, then tucked the flowers into her tote.
A vendor farther down recognized her and greeted her with easy familiarity, leaning in with a grin that was practiced but harmless. Rita played along, amused, while Faro crossed his arms and adopted an exaggerated look of offense. The vendor laughed. Rita laughed harder, nudging Faro with her elbow as they moved on. The moment passed as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind nothing but warmth.
At a fruit stall, the vendor offered samples on the tip of a knife. Rita tasted one, nodded approvingly, then held a slice up to Faro’s mouth. He hesitated, suspicious, then bit down and immediately made a face. Rita watched him with delight. She teased him gently, and he swallowed his pride along with the fruit. The vendor smiled at them both, already turning to the next customer.
They found shade beneath a tree at the edge of the market and sat for a while without speaking. Rita stared out at the moving crowd, her voice softer when she finally spoke. Markets, she said, always reminded her of earlier days in Thundarr City, when everything felt closer together, when people knew each other’s names. Faro listened without interrupting, the way he always did when she drifted into memory. When she finished, she exhaled and smiled as if setting the past back where it belonged.
Music carried toward them from somewhere nearby. A street musician played beneath another tree, his guitar case open at his feet. Rita swayed slightly where she stood, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it. Faro tapped his fingers against his leg, keeping time. Neither of them spoke. The music filled the space between them and then faded as they walked on.
The tote grew heavier as the hours passed. Greens, fruit, bread, flowers—small things adding up. Faro reached for the bag, insisting it was his turn. Rita refused, tightening her grip. They stopped in the middle of the path, smiling at each other as if this argument had happened many times before. In the end, they compromised, each taking one handle. They walked on like that, shoulders close, the weight shared evenly.
By the time hunger caught up with them, the market had thinned. They sat at an outdoor table and ordered something simple. Fries arrived in a heap between them, and Faro fed one to Rita, watching her bite down with exaggerated care. Later, she returned the favor, wiping sauce from her fingers with a laugh. The city moved around them, but their corner of it felt briefly suspended.
When they stood again, the pace slowed. Rita slipped her arm through Faro’s, and they walked without destination, letting the crowd dissolve into distance. Leaves rustled overhead. Footsteps echoed softly on stone.
At the bus stop, they stood side by side. Rita leaned into Faro’s shoulder, tired now, content in the way that comes only after a full day. The tote rested at their feet. A bus hummed somewhere down the street, lights flickering closer. Faro didn’t move. He simply tilted his head slightly, making room for her. The city continued its steady rhythm around them, and they waited, calm at last.
The frozen plains of Snow Land had always been cruel, but they were honest in their cruelty. Wind, ice, and time were enemies the Warrior Dames understood. Grawar was different.
When the creature emerged from the white horizon, the ground itself seemed to recoil. Twelve feet tall, wrapped in ancient frost and rage, Grawar’s footsteps cracked the ice beneath him like splitting stone. Each step sent a tremor racing across the plains, rattling bone charms, shaking huts, and scattering mammoths into uneasy circles. Fires vanished under drifting snow. The sky dimmed, as if Snow Land itself held its breath.
Rara, Kara, and Wara moved instantly, forming a defensive wall between the village and the beast. Their spears were raised, their stances perfect, their expressions unflinching. Yet none of them struck.
Among the Warrior Dames, Grawar was not merely a monster. He was a forbidden name woven deep into Snow Land folklore. From childhood, every Dame was taught the same law: a Grawar may be resisted, delayed, endured—but never harmed. To spill a Grawar’s blood was believed to invite ruin, famine, and endless winter upon their people. Villages that broke this taboo, the elders said, vanished beneath storms that never ended. Whether truth or myth no longer mattered. The belief ruled them as strongly as any weapon.
So the Dames fought without killing blows. They diverted him from children, dragged survivors from collapsing huts, and endured wounds without retaliation. When Grawar seized Kara in his massive grip and roared in triumph, Snow Land reached the edge of catastrophe. The law that had protected them for generations had become a chain.
That was when the ancient rite was invoked.
High above the plains, unseen by Grawar’s burning eyes, Tiwa, Fairy of Falcon, answered the call. Snow Land magic was not written in runes or spoken aloud. It moved through intention, through balance, through beings older than borders. Tiwa carried the Dames’ plea across the planet, through currents of power that ignored distance and time, until it reached the Cave of Falcon.
Within the cave, the Dwarf did not hesitate. He needed no explanation. Ancient mechanisms awakened beneath the stone, light gathering like a heartbeat. Faro stood at the center as the power surged, the Ring answering the summons before he fully understood it. In a blinding flash, the cave vanished, and the frozen air of Snow Land slammed into his lungs.
Faro arrived as thunder made flesh.
Grawar turned just as the first golden beam tore through the storm. The impact shook the plains harder than any avalanche. Ice exploded outward, snow lifting in a violent halo. Grawar staggered, roaring in fury, his grip loosening as Kara fell free into the snow. The creature charged, claws carving trenches deep enough to swallow men whole, but Faro stood his ground. Each blast from the Ring struck with planetary force, echoing across the plains, cracking ice miles away.
The battle was brief, violent, and absolute. Grawar howled as the ancient power overwhelmed him, not slain, but driven back, broken and fleeing into the white emptiness from which he came. When silence finally returned, Snow Land still stood.
In the aftermath, the Warrior Dames did something no song had ever recorded. They bowed.
Not in submission, and not in weakness, but in recognition. Faro had done what they could not without damning their people. He had carried the burden their laws forbade them to bear. Snow Land was saved without breaking its ancient covenant.
That night, celebration replaced fear. Snow fell gently instead of violently. Mammoths returned. Fires burned steady. And though Faro would not remain among them, the name Grawar would forever mark the day Snow Land was tested by its own beliefs—and endured.
In the quiet after the storm, the Warrior Dames knew one truth with certainty: some battles require strength, others require restraint, and a few demand someone from beyond the law to strike when no one else can.
Rita slipped away from the Cave of Falcon just as the forest light softened into a green-gold hush. The swamp lay deeper within Thundarr Forest, a quiet basin where ancient waters gathered beneath tangled roots and hanging moss. Among the soilmen of old, the place was whispered about as a natural wellspring, its mineral-rich waters believed to renew skin and calm the spirit. Rita knew the truth behind the legends. The swamp carried a subtle current of natural energy, not magic exactly, but something older, something that resonated gently with her body as the Shecon.
She waded into the water slowly, letting the cool swamp wash over her legs, then her waist, then her shoulders. The surface rippled with soft rings as she moved, the water reflecting leaves and sky in broken patterns. She closed her eyes and breathed, letting the tension of recent battles melt away. For a moment, there was only the forest, the water, and her own steady heartbeat.
What Rita did not let show on her face was that she was not alone.
She had sensed Faro long before she reached the swamp. His presence had followed her from the cave, careful but unmistakable, a familiar energy moving through the undergrowth. She smiled inwardly. He was trying to be discreet, but the forest always spoke to her first. From behind a curtain of broad leaves and twisted vines, Faro watched, unaware that his cover had already been gently uncovered.
Rita splashed the water playfully, letting droplets run down her arms, exaggerating her movements just enough to sell the illusion of vulnerability. Then the swamp stirred.
The water behind her bulged unnaturally, reeds snapping aside as something massive forced its way forward. A low, wet growl rolled through the trees. The Dreadmurk rose from the swamp like a nightmare given flesh, its moss-covered body dripping with sludge, its glowing eyes burning through the mist. Its claws broke the surface with a violent splash.
Rita gasped loudly and stumbled forward, her heart pounding in deliberate rhythm. She turned just enough for Faro to see the fear on her face, fear carefully crafted and perfectly convincing. Inside, she was calm. She knew every weak joint, every balance flaw in the creature’s hulking frame. With her Shecon strength and skill, she could have ended the fight in seconds.
But she didn’t move to strike.
She remembered Ronda, screaming as the red serpent coiled and lunged days earlier. She remembered Faro stepping forward without hesitation, the power ring blazing as he saved Ronda from death. Rita had watched that moment from afar, unseen, and something quiet had stirred in her chest. Not jealousy, not weakness, but a simple, human desire.
She wanted that too.
So she ran.
Water exploded around her as she splashed forward, the Dreadmurk roaring behind her, its heavy steps shaking the swamp. Rita cried out, her voice carrying just enough desperation to cut through Faro’s restraint. That was all it took.
The bushes burst apart as Faro emerged, his expression shifting from shock to resolve in an instant. The orange falcon symbol flared to life on his chest as he stepped between Rita and the monster, power gathering around him like heat before a storm.
The battle unfolded exactly as Rita knew it would, but seeing it up close made it no less breathtaking.
Faro planted his feet in the sucking mud as the Dreadmurk surged forward, water exploding around its legs. The creature’s roar shook the hanging vines, its claws slashing through the air where Faro’s head had been a heartbeat earlier. Faro twisted aside on instinct, feeling the wind of the strike brush his shoulder as his boots slid through the swamp. He barely had time to breathe before the monster came again, faster than its bulk should have allowed, its moss-covered body rolling forward like a living wall.
Faro raised his ring hand and fired. A tight beam of orange energy ripped through the mist and struck the Dreadmurk square in the chest, lighting the swamp in a sudden blaze. The creature staggered back with a howl, steam rising from its cracked, bark-like hide, but it did not fall. It never did. Instead, it slammed its claws into the water and charged again, rage burning in its glowing eyes.
Rita watched from behind him, her breath held, her body tense with the effort of not stepping in. She could see Faro adapting in real time, learning the monster’s rhythm, turning fear into focus. He ducked under a sweeping arm, rolled through the water, came up on one knee, and fired again, this time aiming low. The blast tore into the Dreadmurk’s leg, staggering it just enough for Faro to close the distance.
They collided in a spray of mud and water. The Dreadmurk’s claws locked around Faro’s shoulders, lifting him partially off the ground as it tried to crush him. Faro gritted his teeth, muscles screaming, the orange glow intensifying around his hands and chest. The falcon symbol flared brighter, heat radiating through his body as the ring answered his will.
With a raw shout, Faro pushed back.
Power surged through him, not as a beam this time, but as pure force. He broke the creature’s grip, drove his hands under its massive torso, and straightened. The swamp groaned as Faro lifted the Dreadmurk higher and higher, water cascading from its body in sheets. The monster thrashed, claws scraping at empty air, but Faro held firm, legs trembling, every muscle drawn tight as steel cables.
For a moment, time seemed to pause.
Then Faro roared and heaved upward with everything he had left. The Dreadmurk’s advance shattered completely as its massive body tipped backward, its balance broken, its dominance undone. It crashed down into the swamp with a thunderous splash, the shockwave rippling outward until it struck the tree roots and vanished into the distance.
Silence followed.
The mist drifted back into place. Leaves settled. The water calmed to slow, widening rings. Faro stood there, chest rising and falling, mud and water clinging to him, the falcon symbol fading gradually as the surge of power ebbed. Across the swamp, the Dreadmurk lay stunned and retreating into the depths, its presence dissolving back into the shadows it had come from.
Only the sound of breathing remained. Faro’s. Rita’s.
And in that quiet aftermath, Rita knew she had made the right choice.
Rita hurried to him as the danger passed. She wrapped her arms around Faro, pressing close, her relief entirely real now. She looked up at him, eyes warm, proud, grateful. Before he could speak, she rose onto her toes and kissed his forehead softly.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice low and sincere. “My hero.”
Faro flushed, caught somewhere between embarrassment and joy.
Rita smiled and took his hand. “Come,” she said, tugging gently. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”
She turned toward the deeper forest, toward the hidden entrance of her Shecon cave. “Your favorite,” she added, glancing back at him with a knowing look.
Together, they left the swamp behind, the water settling once more into quiet stillness, as if the Dreadmurk had never existed at all.
The Dinner
As the fire settled into a steady glow, Rita moved through the Shecon cave with practiced ease, the stone walls holding warmth from the day and the scent of forest herbs clinging to the air. She cooked without haste, stirring and tasting, occasionally glancing back at Faro with a knowing smile as he watched from his chair, content and quietly amazed. The cave felt different now, softened by laughter and the simple rhythm of a shared evening. When she finally brought the pan to the table, steam rising in gentle curls, Rita offered Faro the first taste, studying his reaction with playful seriousness until his grin told her everything she needed to know.
They ate together as night settled fully over Thundarr Forest, the sounds outside shifting to crickets, distant water, and the hush of leaves moving in moonlight. Conversation came easily, drifting from the battle to small stories, memories, and unspoken understandings that needed no words. The firelight painted their faces in gold and shadow, and for a while the world beyond the cave felt far away, as if even the forest itself was standing guard to protect the quiet moment they shared.
Later, with mugs warm in their hands and the fire reduced to glowing embers, they sat together near the cave’s mouth, watching the moon hang above the trees. Rita leaned back, satisfied, her earlier performance in the swamp now just a private smile between them. She had let Faro be the hero, not because she needed saving, but because sometimes strength also meant choosing when to step aside. As the night deepened, the tale of the Dreadmurk ended not with a roar or a clash, but with peace, warmth, and the steady comfort of two figures resting safely within the forest that knew them both.
Cal Faros stood in the garden like a man who had learned to wear confidence the way others wore clothes. The white suit fit him perfectly, the red-tinted glasses hiding his eyes, his hands resting casually in his pockets as if nothing in the world could reach him. Around him, laughter and perfume lingered. Three women pressed close, each drawn to a different version of the same man—his charm, his mystery, his power.
But the house behind them was watching.
Rita Faros stood at the top of the mansion steps, arms crossed, her posture rigid with restraint. The breeze lifted her hair, but her expression didn’t move. This was her home. Her legacy. And the son she had raised now stood below, turning her garden into a stage.
Cal felt her before he saw her. He always did. A tightening in his chest, a flicker of irritation masked by a crooked smile. He didn’t turn around. Not yet. Turning would mean acknowledging what he was avoiding.
To him, this moment was freedom—proof that he belonged to no one, that he could live unanchored, untouched by expectation. To Rita, it was something else entirely. A boy pretending to be untouchable, surrounded by distractions because he was afraid to stand alone.
The women sensed the shift. The laughter softened. Someone glanced back toward the steps. No one spoke.
Rita didn’t shout. She didn’t move. She simply stood there, disappointment sharper than anger, letting silence do what words never could.
Cal finally turned his head just enough to meet her gaze through the tinted glass. For a heartbeat, the suit, the charm, the game—all of it slipped. What remained was a son who knew exactly why he couldn’t settle down, and a mother who knew he would have to learn the cost of that choice on his own.
Then Cal smiled again, and the moment passed.
Mother Knows the Green
Rita watched the ball disappear across the green, its path clean and certain, and for a moment she said nothing. Albort stepped back politely, already knowing this was not a conversation meant for him. Cal stood beside his mother, club resting against his shoulder, his smile easy, practiced.
“You swing like you don’t care where it lands,” Rita said at last. “That works in golf. Not in life.”
Cal sighed, half amused, half irritated. “Here we go.”
She turned to him then, really looked at him, the way only a mother can—past the charm, past the suit, past the careless confidence. “I’ve seen the women you surround yourself with. Ambition, beauty, secrets. You call it freedom, but it looks more like noise.”
“They’re just companions,” Cal replied. “Nothing serious.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Rita said calmly. “Nothing is ever serious. You keep everyone at arm’s length so no one can hurt you. Or expose you.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
Rita smiled sadly. “I understand more than you think. I know what it’s like to live with danger, to love someone knowing the world might take them from you. But love isn’t a weakness, Cal. Running from it is.”
He looked away toward the mansion, the house that had watched him grow up, that had seen too many late nights and too many empty mornings. “Settling down means giving something up.”
“Yes,” Rita said softly. “It means giving up the illusion that you can live alone forever. And in return, you gain something steadier than thrill. Someone who stands when the parties end and the masks come off.”
The wind moved through the trees. Cal said nothing.
Rita placed a hand on his arm, firm but gentle. “One day, you’ll be tired of being admired and want to be known. When that day comes, I hope you don’t realize you’ve already pushed the right person away.”
She stepped back, leaving him with the quiet and the weight of her words. Cal stared out across the green again, but this time the horizon didn’t look quite as open as it had a moment before.
Rita Faros spent the day at Cal Mansion the way she always did when she was determined to reclaim time from the noise of the outside planet—deliberately, gracefully, and on her own terms.
The morning began in the indoor pool, where sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling and painted the water in soft blues and golds. Rita moved through the pool with calm strength, her red swimsuit cutting clean lines through the water as she swam lap after lap. There was no hurry in her motion, only control. At the edge of the pool, Cal Faros sat quietly, his feet submerged, watching her with an expression that mixed admiration and thoughtfulness. He said little, and Rita didn’t need him to. This was a shared silence—mother and son occupying the same space without performance, without defenses. When she finally surfaced and rested her arms on the edge, she smiled at him, and for a moment he was no billionaire, no vigilante—just her boy again.
As evening settled over the mansion, the atmosphere shifted. The dining room glowed with candlelight, reflections dancing across polished wood and crystal glassware. Rita had changed into a black gown, elegant and understated, the kind that carried authority without demanding attention. Cal sat across from her, relaxed but attentive, holding a glass of wine as if the ritual itself mattered more tonight. Behind them, Albort moved with quiet precision, serving the meal as he always did—present, respectful, and unobtrusive. Conversation flowed gently, touching on memories, small observations, and unspoken concerns. Rita listened more than she spoke, her gaze steady on Cal, as if weighing how much of her advice he was finally ready to hear.
Later, the mansion grew quieter still. In the entertainment room, Cal settled into the sofa, the weight of the day easing from his shoulders. Rita stood nearby, still in her gown, the room lit warmly around her. When she began to host to sing, her voice filled the space—not loud, not performative, but rich with feeling. It was a song meant for one listener. Cal watched her, the edge in his expression softening, as if the melody was reaching parts of him that words never could. For Rita, it was a gift: a reminder that strength could be gentle, that love didn’t always need instruction.
By the end of the night, Cal Mansion felt less like a fortress and more like a home. Rita had swum, dined, and sung her way through the day—not to control her son’s choices, but to remind him that beneath the freedom he chased, there was something steadier waiting for him, whenever he chose to reach for it.
Moonlight filtered through the thick leaves of Thundarr Forest, turning the mist silver and green. The red snake rose from the undergrowth like a living scar in the jungle, its scales glowing dark crimson, its yellow eyes fixed on prey. Its mouth opened wide, fangs dripping venom that hissed when it touched the forest floor.
Ronda Riy screamed and stumbled backward, her white shoes slipping on damp leaves. Fear froze her in place. The forest felt suddenly too close, the shadows pressing in. She could hear her own heartbeat louder than the night insects.
Then Faro moved.
He stepped in front of her without hesitation, placing himself between Ronda and the serpent. His arm came up smoothly, muscle tight beneath his black shirt, the Power Ring of Falcon flaring to life on his finger. Orange light burst outward, warm and fierce, cutting through the darkness like a blade.
“Behind me,” Faro said, his voice steady.
Ronda obeyed instinctively, clutching his arm as she pressed close to his back, still screaming, still shaking. She could feel the heat of the ring, the pulse of power traveling through Faro’s body as if the forest itself had chosen him.
The snake struck.
Its head lunged forward, jaws snapping shut where Faro had stood a heartbeat before. Faro twisted his stance and unleashed the beam. A focused stream of orange energy tore through the air and slammed directly into the creature’s open mouth. Sparks exploded outward, lighting the trees and leaves in flashes of fire and gold.
The snake recoiled, shrieking in a sound that rattled the forest. Its massive body thrashed, crushing vines and snapping branches as it pulled away, wounded and furious. Smoke curled from its scales where the beam had struck.
Faro did not chase it. He held his ground, arm still raised, eyes locked on the retreating shape until the jungle swallowed it whole. Only when the forest fell silent again did the glow of the ring fade.
Ronda’s screams turned into sobs. She pressed her forehead against Faro’s shoulder, breath uneven, hands trembling.
“It’s gone,” Faro said quietly.
She nodded, unable to speak yet, but alive. Safe.
Above them, the moon slipped free of the clouds, casting calm light over the leaves. The forest resumed its breathing. And in that moment, standing together in the aftermath, Ronda understood something she would never forget.
On Planet Thundarr, monsters existed. But so did protectors.
Falcon the 3rd – Issue #3 Shecon is a highly skilled warrior with exceptional stamina, allowing her to run at high speeds and climb with agility far beyond a normal…
Falcon the 3rd – Issue #3
Shecon is a highly skilled warrior with exceptional stamina, allowing her to run at high speeds and climb with agility far beyond a normal female soilman. She wields a power boomerang that always returns to her when summoned, making it a versatile weapon. Her smart goggle, connected to the Thundarr Database Center, grants her access to facial profiles, identity verification, and night vision, enhancing her tactical awareness. Combined with her combat prowess, these abilities make Shecon a formidable force in Thundarr Forest and beyond.
The Thundarr Forest lay cloaked in darkness, the towering trees swaying with the night’s wind. From high above, Shecon—Rita Faros—moved gracefully through the branches, her sleek, skin-tight black leather suit glinting under the moonlight. Her long-heeled boots barely made a sound as she landed on a sturdy branch, scanning the ground below. The orange-toned ski goggles resting on her face enhanced her vision, allowing her to see Hogzilla, a villager on a donkey, traveling with a sack of gold.
His destination was another village—his daughter’s wedding depended on this fortune.
But fate had other plans.
From the shadows, two figures stepped into his path.
Mister Gee, a grizzled 35-year-old thug with a scar running down his cheek, cracked his knuckles, while beside him, Bad Lad, a cocky 16-year-old delinquent, twirled a dagger.
“Hand it over, old man,” Mister Gee sneered.
“Yeah,” Bad Lad grinned. “Before we get nasty.”
Shecon didn’t hesitate. Her power boomerang whirled through the air, striking Mister Gee in the shoulder, sending him reeling.
Bad Lad, however, dodged just in time. He spotted her in the trees.
Before she could react, a sharp stone struck the back of her head.
CRACK!
Her vision blurred, her balance wavered, and before she could regain control, Mister Gee lunged forward, grabbing her wrists and forcing her down.
Bad Lad cheered. “We got her! Let’s take her to the boss!”
As the world faded to black, she heard Hogzilla’s desperate cries for help.
Shecon’s Dungeon
In the depths of the castle, Shecon sat chained to the stone wall. Her wrists ached, but her resolve remained unbroken.
The Evil Master, a purple cloaked figure with glowing green eyes, loomed outside her cell. “You meddle too much, Shecon,” he hissed. “Perhaps a few nights in my dungeon will humble you.”
Shecon smirked despite the pain. “That’s cute. Do you rehearse your evil speeches?”
The Evil Master’s eyes narrowed with rage. Before he could respond, a sudden knock at the dungeon door!
The Evil Master turned sharply. “What?!”
The Evil Master open the dungeon door to find no one there, it was Tiwa the fairy of Falcon who can appear and disappear from anywhere anytime – she was trying to distract the Evil Master from harming Rita the Shecon till Faro arrives at the castle to rescue her alive.
Shecon grinned. “Sounds like some ghost is trying to get your attention.”
Falcon Arrives
Deep in the Cave of Falcon, Faro Faros—the new Falcon—stood by the fire, when suddenly, Tiwa, the fairy of Falcon, appeared in a burst of light.
“Falcon! Shecon has been captured!” she squeaked.
Faro froze.
He had heard the name before. Shecon. A warrior of Thundarr Forest. A legend.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Hogzilla was attacked! Shecon saved him, but she was taken to the Castle of Evil Master!“
Without hesitation, Faro grabbed his Power Ring to turn into the Falcon.
He sprinted to his trusted horse, Lightning, and leaped into the saddle.
“Yah!” he commanded, and Lightning galloped into the night.
At the edge of a moss-covered clearing, the massive, boar-like figure of Hogzillah stood, his muscular frame trembling with grief. The towering pigman, his thick tusks dulled by sorrow, wiped his watery eyes as Falcon landed before him with a silent yet powerful presence.
“Hogzillah,” Falcon greeted, his voice calm but firm. “What happened?”
The pigman let out a guttural, sorrowful snort before falling to his knees. “Falcon… They took it! My gold pouch! I worked for years to save for my daughter’s wedding in the Village of Pigmen—gone, all gone!” He clenched his massive fists, his heavy body shaking with a mixture of sorrow and rage.
Falcon narrowed his eyes. “Who did this?”
Hogzillah sniffled, his large nostrils flaring as he choked back his emotions. “It was Mister Gee and the Bad Lad! They ambushed me on the trade route near the Root Hollow Path. I was carrying the gold when they appeared—Mister Gee with his smooth, smug words distracting me, while that treacherous Bad Lad struck from behind! Before I could react, they were gone, laughing as they fled toward the northern caves!”
Falcon’s fists tightened. Mister Gee—the sly, silver-tongued conman with a knack for deception—and Bad Lad, his ruthless, violent enforcer, had long been a scourge upon the region. This was not a simple robbery. It was an act of cruelty against a father who wanted nothing more than to see his daughter wed in peace.
“Don’t worry, Hogzillah,” Falcon said, resting a firm hand on the pigman’s shoulder. “I’ll get your gold back.”
Storming the Castle
The Castle of Evil Master loomed against the sky, a fortress of blackened stone.
From the shadows, Falcon dismounted and pulled out his grapple hook.
Whoosh!
It latched onto a high ledge, and with a swift motion, he ascended the wall like a phantom.
Once inside, he moved through the halls, taking down guards in swift, brutal silence.
Falcon vs. The Henchmen
Mister Gee and Bad Lad blocked his path.
“You’re dead, Falcon!” Mister Gee growled, drawing a sword.
Bad Lad cracked his knuckles. “Time to finish what we started!”
Falcon dodged Mister Gee’s blade, countering with a brutal kick that sent the older thug crashing into a wall.
Bad Lad lunged at Falcon—only to be caught mid-air and slammed onto the floor.
With both criminals incapacitated, Falcon sprinted toward the dungeon.
Finally, he reached the dungeon.
With a powerful kick, the iron door flew open.
Inside, shackled to the stone wall, was Shecon.
Faro’s breath caught in his throat.
He knew that face.
Even with the ski goggles covering her eyes, even in the battle-worn suit, he recognized her instantly.
Rita Faros.
His aunt.
The Reunion
Shecon lifted her head at the sound of the breaking door.
When her goggles locked onto the man standing before her—the warrior with the Falcon Power Ring—her heart stopped.
She knew that face.
Faro.
Her lips trembled. “Faro…?”
His jaw tightened, emotions battling within him. “It’s me, aunty Rita.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she ripped off her goggles, revealing the raw emotion beneath them.
“Oh, Faro!”
She lunged toward him, her arms wrapping around him as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Faro was momentarily stunned as she hugged him tightly, her body pressing against his.
Then, she kissed him on the lips.
The moment her lips met his, heat surged through his body. He was caught between shock and something far deeper.
Her kiss was not just relief. It was longing. Grief. Passion.
When she finally pulled away, her hands cupped his face, her green eyes shimmering.
“You’re alive,” she whispered. “My beautiful boy… You’re Falcon.”
Faro exhaled, his heart pounding. “And you’re Shecon.”
She smiled, though tears still glistened. “Yes. But right now, we need to get out of here.”
Faro nodded. “Stay close.”
The Battle & The Escape
As they fought through the castle, taking down guards side by side, it felt as if they had been fighting together for years.
When they reached the throne room, the Evil Master stood waiting.
“You think you can take her from me?” his voice hissed
“You’re too late,” he sneered. “This is my domain!”
Falcon and Shecon charged him together. Their combined attacks overwhelmed him, forcing him to retreat into the shadows.
Before they could land a final blow, the Evil Master suddenly disappeared—vanishing into a dark portal.
Shecon scowled. “Coward.”
Falcon exhaled. “He’ll be back.”
With the Evil Master gone, the castle remained standing, shrouded in eerie silence.
“We should burn it down,” Shecon suggested.
Falcon shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t know what secrets lie within.”
Shecon exhaled, placing a hand on Faro’s shoulder. “He definitely will be back; we will get him next time”
Faro looked at her, still reeling from their reunion. “Yes Aunty, we will.”
The Return to Pigmen Village
As dawn broke over Thundarr Forest, the two warriors rode Lightning, Falcon’s powerful black stallion, galloping through the mist-covered trees.
By the time they reached the Village of Pigmen, the entire town had gathered, anxiously awaiting their arrival.
Hogzillah stood at the front, his massive frame trembling with anticipation. Beside him, his daughter—dressed in a modest yet elegant wedding gown—clutched her hands together, eyes brimming with hope.
Then, Falcon raised the gold pouch high into the air.
A wave of cheers erupted through the village. Hogzillah’s eyes welled with fresh tears, but this time, they were of joy. He rushed forward, dropping to one knee before Falcon and Shecon.
“You have saved my daughter’s wedding… and my honor,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I—I don’t have the words to thank you.”
The villagers surrounded them, their cheers growing louder. The elders of Pigmen lifted Falcon and Shecon onto their shoulders, hailing them as the Heroes of Thundarr Forest.
“The forest has not seen warriors like you in generations!” one villager proclaimed.
Hogzillah’s daughter stepped forward, bowing gracefully before Falcon and Shecon. “Because of you, today will be the happiest day of my life.”
Falcon simply nodded, placing the gold pouch into her hands. “Then let it be so.”
As the wedding preparations resumed, the village erupted into a night of music, dance, and celebration. Around the grand bonfire, villagers chanted the names Falcon and Shecon, ensuring that their heroism would be remembered in legend.
But as Falcon and Shecon stood at the edge of the festivities, gazing into the distant horizon, they both knew…
The forest air trembled as the skull-faced creature crouched on the branch, its blade gleaming in the mist. Rita slid back in the dirt, breath sharp, heart pounding like thunder trapped in her ribs. Beside her, Faro rose to one knee, the Ring of Falcon burning like a miniature sun in his fist. Leaves shook loose from the trees, orbiting him in a fiery spiral. The creature hissed, red hair writhing like furious flames. Faro didn’t blink. The glow spread up his arm. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. Rita clutched the earth. The forest fell silent, waiting for destiny to strike.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Mist clung to every branch like ghostly webs, and Rita felt it on her skin, cold and invading. Her legs slid across the mossy earth as she scrambled back, breath ragged, dress streaked with dirt. She didn’t dare blink. The thing on the tree was watching them.
It crouched like a nightmare given flesh: a towering soilmen male with muscles knotted like ropes under pale skin, long red hair like wildfire whipping in the wind, and a skull where a face should be. Empty sockets stared down, black and endless. In its fist, a jagged blade glinted, thirsty.
Faro rose to one knee beside her, jaw clenched. He looked impossibly young in that moment, a soilmen boy with red hair and fear in his eyes. But fear wasn’t all. In his hand, the Ring of Falcon began to glow, a trembling spark at first. Then it flared, lighting the trees with a surge of orange fire like dawn breaking in his palm.
Leaves spun around his arm, drawn to the glow as if gravity had shifted. Rita felt the heat lick her cheek, warm and alive. “Stay behind me,” Faro whispered, voice shaking but sure. She heard duty in it. She heard destiny. She heard the echo of every Falcon before him.
The creature shifted. Bark cracked under its weight as it pressed forward on the branch. Its grin stretched impossibly wide across bone, a hollow threat. It raised the blade.
Rita’s fingers dug into the soil. She could not run. Even if she tried, her body refused. Something ancient in the forest was awake now. Something older than fear.
Faro stood, arm outstretched, the ring a burning star in the ruins of the night.
Moonlight clung to the treetops like pale fire, and the clearing below held its breath. Falcon’s boots carved backward through the soil as he dodged, heartbeat rising like thunder in his ribs. He had never seen a thing like this; he had never even imagined it. Murder Dog lunged again, his bare feet silent, his movements too smooth for something so monstrous. The skull that served as his face caught the moonlight, hollow eyes gleaming with a hunger that was not human.
Falcon’s ring pulsed. The orange glow flickered in time with his fear, brightening each time he lifted his fist. He could feel it, like a second heartbeat, like something ancient inside him had woken up just to witness this moment. The forest bent around them, branches twisting like they were afraid to get too close.
Murder Dog’s blade cut the air where Falcon had been only a breath before. He stumbled, stepped wide, barely caught himself. His throat felt tight, his voice locked behind terror, but he managed to raise his hand. The ring’s glow crawled up his forearm like fire made of memory.
“Who are you?” Falcon asked, but the question fell flat, swallowed by fog. Murder Dog offered no answer. The red hair that hung around his skull swayed like bloodied strands of a nightmare, and his chest rose and fell with the quiet rage of an animal denied its meal. Then he moved again—fast, impossibly fast—and Falcon felt the air break beside him. The blade never touched, but he felt its promise.
Somewhere behind him in the trees, a branch snapped. Perhaps the forest wanted to run. Perhaps it prayed. Falcon planted his feet. He did not know how to fight someone like this. He barely knew how to fight at all. But he knew how to survive. And the ring, warm now, seemed to whisper that surviving was enough. For now.
Falcon’s stance changed. His breath steadied. Murder Dog halted mid-stride, skull angled, sensing the shift. They faced each other as the fog thickened, as the moon hid behind thin clouds, as the world trembled on the edge of whatever came next. Falcon’s fist rose, ring flaring.
The first chapter of fear was ending.
And the night, impossibly dark and wide, opened its mouth to begin another.
ChatGPT Generated Falcon 3rd Gallery is a visual archive of concept art created for the Planet Thundarr universe by Omar Saif, in collaboration with AI as a creative assistant. These images represent evolving character ideas, locations, and story moments from the Falcon III saga — from forest encounters and Thundarr City skylines to Rita Faros’ iconic looks and the world that surrounds her. Each visual is a step in the ongoing development of this universe, blending human imagination with machine-generated interpretation.
In the blazing sunlight of SouthBank City, where life burns with color and contradiction,
Faro Faros walks hand-in-hand with Rita — unaware that shadows trail them like ghosts from the forest.
**LOVE AND SHADOWS IN SOUTHBANK CITY**
*A poem inspired by the moments before destiny returns.*
In SouthBank City, where the sidewalks gleam,
Where summer hangs like a half-remembered dream,
A boy with fire for hair and a falcon on his chest
Walks with a girl whose laughter makes the world feel blessed.
He holds roses like secrets he’s rehearsed in his palms,
Petals trembling like sparrows, like psalms.
His Power Ring glows like a promise half-told,
A story of flames, of courage, of gold.
And she—
Sun-soaked in yellow and bottle-green skies,
Is a sunrise that learned how to walk and disguise
All the wars she has fought in the back of her mind,
All the storms she has weathered, the ghosts left behind.
Their smiles touch without touching, like prayers and like sparks,
Two souls who found daylight after life lost its marks.
But love, on this street, is never alone;
It is watched, it is tested, like metal on stone.
A billboard above gnashes teeth in a grin,
Mr. Clown’s voice slithering, *I am watching*, again.
He is laughter made poison, a carnival’s ghost,
A predator advertising fear like a host.
And farther behind, like a breath held too long,
Stands Ronda Riy—
glass-eyed, brittle, sky-blue and wrong
for this moment so tender,
for this chapter she can’t mend or
undo,
as jealousy stings like a splintering truth.
Yet the couple stays steady—
like dawn and like dusk,
like fate holding hands with both passion and trust.
For Faro and Rita are kindle and spark,
Light in the daylight, flame in the dark.
Her smile is a sunrise he never outran,
His touch is the proof that she finally can
let the forest and battlefields blur in her soul.
So remember this moment
when the thunderclouds come—
for even a hero needs somewhere called *home.*
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